


Mad Max Drabbles/Fics

by ahimsabitches



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:11:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 6,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7534024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahimsabitches/pseuds/ahimsabitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm collecting all my Mad Max fics/drabbles/writing prompts from Tumblr here. Some of these are NSFW! The only common thread is that they are set in the MMFR verse or about MMFR characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Miss Jobassa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parent/Teacher AU. Dad Max is confused.

The desks look like wood-and-steel crab claws and they pinch like them too. Max grunts and shifts and glances at Toast in the desk next to him. She’s closed off, looking away. He hasn’t met this teacher yet, but he feels like he already has. The judgments passed down from Toast’s other teachers squat on his shoulders like squawking animals.

“Hi, I’m Miss Jobassa. Toast’s science teacher.” This voice does not squawk at all. He grunts in surprise and shakes the proffered hand: slim and graceful, like the rest of her. His eyes rest on her face: dimpled cheeks, shorn head. Sharp green eyes and a smile that could turn snarl in a snap. It’s intimidating…and fascinating. The woman folds herself easily into the desk in front of Max (it does not pinch her). “You must be Toast’s dad. I’ve gotta say, Toast is one of the most engaged and active students I’ve ever taught…”

Her voice beguiles him as much as her words surprise him. He finds words of his own, drawn out of him less like pulling teeth and more like a sitting-down sigh. His phone buzzes.

Angharad: Are you guys OK?

Capable: Come home soon plz Cheedo is kinda freaking out :/

Dag: u 2 better not b stuffing ur faces w/o us!!  >:I RUDE DAD

“Um. Sorry. I have to, um…” he holds his phone up. Miss Jobassa nods, smiling that small smile that makes him blush all the way down his neck. He hunches over the phone in his hand; pecks at the screen: Sry. Talking 2 Toasts sci teacher. Home soon.

He looks up gratefully. Her eyes spin threads of greenness out to him and he catches hold of them and they pull him in. His phone vibrates against his hip. He grunts, this time in frustration.

Dag: OMG DAD ITS BEEN 2 HRS TOAST IS NOT THAT INTERESTING

Capable: Daaadddd u should ask her out if u havent alreaddyyyyy lmao

Dag: ASK HER OUT THEN COME HOME I AM HUNGRY I DEMAND SUSTENANCE IN THE FORM OF PIZZA ROLLS

Cheedo: omg omg omg!!! i knew she’d like u!! i showed her a pic of u & she said ur hair looked like a ducks’ butt and it was cute!! ask her ooouuuuuut <3 <3 <3 <3

His hand goes reflexively to the cowlick at the back of his head and his face heats up to near combustion. Suddenly it’s much easier to not look at her. A sandpaper tongue darts out to wet desert lips.

Angharad: Invite her back here! Capable got tired of waiting and went out for pizza. There’s plenty. And I made cookies too! :)

His mind revs like an engine in neutral, thoughts whirling like the spray of sand from spinning tires. “Hm. Want to, um, come back with us? For pizza?”

The dimples grow with her smile. Her teeth could rip out his throat and he would not– could not– object. But instead of lunging for his neck she says, “Pizza sounds great. I just need to pack up here. And you should go find Toast. She wandered off an hour ago. By the way, you can call me Furiosa.”

“Hrmph. Max.”

“I know.”


	2. Rollercoaster Rictus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of feelings about Joe's two surviving sons. 
> 
> Safe for work.

“Rictus, ease off. Don’t drown them.”

Rictus was having entirely too much fun with the hose, and Corpus couldn’t help but smile. The rooftop gardens were their favorite place. You couldn’t be in a bad mood among so much rare and rustling green.

For the past few weeks, Dad had been– thankfully– content, and life had settled into a routine: rounds with him, rounds without him, inventory, preparing shipments, and a meeting every third day to plan patrols and raids. Right now Dad was with his Imperators and Corpus could, as much as his stunted lungs would let him, _breathe_.

“Let’s go down to the hydroponics. I think I saw some ripe peaches.”

Rictus nearly pitched his brother off the rickety office chair with the force of his excitement. _Rollercoaster Rictus_ was Corpus’ secret nickname for his brother, one that he would take to his grave.

Corpus closed his eyes and let delicate sheets of mist dance across his face. It was dim and cool and wet in the hydroponics, in direct contrast to every other place he’d ever known. Wombs were supposed to be warm, but Corpus felt himself in the belly of the world here. Safe and safely alive, even though every breath was a fight and every day banged the gavel of his death a bit louder.

A warpup came with a message for Rictus, and he tromped out in the pup’s wake, vague bafflement as constant a feature of his face as his nose. Another pup wheeled Corpus into the Milking Room. The air was redolent with sour milk and sour flesh. He heard Dad’s clunking footfalls over the hiss and pulse of the pumps and busied himself at the spyglass. They’d just sent Furiosa out on a run to Gastown. He tracked the rig down the road…

…and it swerved. Kept going. East.

_Furi, what are you_ doing _?_

“Corpus,” she’d asked him one day, in a memory on the verge of forgetfulness, “what time do you take lunch?”

A horrible understanding swept him, and he would have swayed if he’d been standing. Then, the high white whine of panic sheared through his mind. He was pinned between a rogue rig and the Immortan’s fury. 

“Moo,” Rictus said. 

Corpus screwed his eyes shut and willed Furiosa faster with everything he was.

“Hey Pa, you know about this?” He asked.

Dad did not notice the tears in Corpus’s eyes when he took the spyglass.


	3. Happy Birthday, Joe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe x friend's OC. Safe for work.

With nothing more than a hand on the small of her back, Joe guides Eden down the craggy crooked hallway, which may as well be a grand marble hallway festooned with tapestries and heraldic banners and ending in a grand marble throne built for him.

But they enter his private chambers instead, and Joe watches Eden’s face carefully.

They are always surprised, and their reactions read better than a dossier.

In Joe’s room rest some of the last– and greatest– relics from the Before, things that aren’t even memories to most people. But Eden’s economy of movement doesn’t change. Her Mona Lisa smile widens only a fraction. Compared to Dira, who’d gaped and scampered and yipped, Eden does not react at all.

Not to the television, which Joe turns on with the remote hidden against his side, then mutes. Not to the juke, from which he coaxes Rod Stewart’s muzzy but still silky smooth voice crooning through “[Tonight’s the Night](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D5KKd0kE_21M&t=YmEzMWViMTRkYjdmNTI4NTQ5ZGE3N2IyMjBjZmFkY2QyYzFiZjgwYixPTGE1dXVZSw%3D%3D)”. Not to the crystal glass he hands her, an inch of honey-brown liquid swirling in the bottom.

“Small sips,” he rumbles. “It’s only gotten stronger. Still very good, though. _Full flavor_.”

_C'mon, angel, my heart’s on fire/ Don’t deny your man’s desire/ You’d be a fool to stop this tide/ Spread your wings and let me come inside_

Joe plunges his unmasked face into her hair and inhales. Rich and sweet, like whiskey. With singular focus he watches the hollow of her throat pulse as she swallows a sip. He can’t help smiling when she grimaces and coughs a little. Delicate fingers cover rouged lips.

“That _is_ strong.” she laughs. It’s musical and light. 

_Don’t say a word my virgin child/ Just let your inhibitions run wild/ The secret is about to unfold/Upstairs before the night’s too old_

It’s all a game, but Joe loves to play now that Eden’s across the board. The neat double in his glass slides like liquid fire down his gullet and it’s a fight not to pitch the thing against the wall.

Usually he doesn’t have to _ask_ ; their goggling eyes and wondering whispers say it all. But Eden plays the game differently. _Plays the game_. But he plays to _win_. “So do you like it?” 

She turns her head only slightly, just one thickly-lashed golden eye and a softly upturned corner of her mouth visible. “It’s very charming.” 

_Tonight’s the night/ It’s gonna be all right/ Cause I love you woman/ Ain’t nobody gonna stop us now_

“Do you know what today is, my dear?” His hand not holding the glass strays down the swell of her hip. 

She stands still and quiet for a moment, gazing out the narrow window to the desert below, an undulating sea of the dying sun’s blood.

He presses himself to her, her earthbrown curls tickling his nose. “Today is my birthday.”

She turns to face him, and her face does change then. Comprehension sparks in her eyes and widens her plush, bowed smile as she glances over his shoulder to the silk-red bed behind him. 

“Happy birthday, my lord,” she purrs, and kisses him with whiskey-sweet lips.


	4. Storytime with Miss Giddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Giddy tells a story from her childhood. Very mild warning for blood.

Miss Giddy shifts uncomfortably. There are no more storms for her old bones to warn against; there are no more winters in which her joints feel filled with fiberglass, but the ache lives in her marrow now. Because there is always a storm raging outside the Vault door, and winter creeps from their captor’s blue eyes.  
  
Dag plops down on a pile of pillows next to Miss Giddy. “Tell me a story about the Before.” She blows a strand of pale hair from her eyes. Her ceaselessly moving fingers remind Miss Giddy of fighting spiders.  
  
“When we were kids, my friends and I used to go down to this abandoned construction site. To get there, we’d have to though this piece of woods, which wasn’t really that much– a five minute walk at most– but we were kids, and we called it The Shire, because it was big to us. Big and green.”  
  
“Green,” Dag breathes.  
  
“We’d pick up things along the way. Sticks, rocks, leaves as big as my hand that we’d tie together and wear as pretend-armor. We’d play from the instant school let out until the sun went down: huge piles of dirt left out so long they had weeds growing on them. The half-built skeletons of houses. They were building a new neighborhood, but one day they just…left. Even the machines. We pretended they were dragons. Or the tower of Barad-dur.”  
  
It had been _their_ place. Even though they saw the cigarette butts and crushed beer cans the bigger kids left, that bunch never bothered the kids that came armed with stick swords and leaf armor. Grownups never went there; never talked about it, as if it only existed on the plane of reality at a nine-year-old’s eye level. They’d thought themselves canny then.  
  
Now, having blown past the horizon of adulthood into the sunless unknown of old age, Miss Giddy knows why the grownups were so keen on blotting the site from their lives: its failure had been the first stirrings of the end that had come in like a crying lamb and went out in a screaming, cataclysmic negation of everything they’d ever known.  
  
“Miss Giddy?”  
  
She blinks. “Sorry, dearie. One day my friend Ryan stepped on a rotten patch of wood in one of the unfinished houses and fell through. I’ll never forget that scream.”  
  
Dag draws her knees up to her chest. “Did he die?”  
  
“No, but he cut himself quite badly. Bled a lot. I was the only one who risked the floor to look in on him.”  
  
“What did you do?”  
  
“I got everybody away from the house and told Justin to run for help. He was the fastest. But he could only stare.” Just like that horrible face Edvard Munch had painted, the face that Miss Giddy still sees in her dreams. “So I ran. I found a man and told him what had happened to Ryan. He told me to quit playing games. I didn’t appreciate the irony then. I found a lady, and she believed me. She called her husband, and they came back with me.”  
  
Someone began sobbing in the other room. Cheedo.  
  
“We’d seen blood plenty of times at the construction site: skinned knees, split lips. But what broke the spell of the place was the lady and her husband. The husband pulled the splintered boards up and his wife held his feet while he dangled in the hole for Ryan. We _were_ grateful; they’d been the heroes we could only play-act. But the other kids resented those two grownups for… invading our space. Soon they resented me for bringing them, even though any of them would have done exactly what I’d done.”  
  
Dag snorts. “Rotten kids. I hope they’re all dead.”  
  
“ _Dearie,_ don’t talk so.”  
  
“The _new girl_ is crying again.”  
  
“You were the new girl once.”  
  
“But I didn’t _sob_ like that.”  
  
Miss Giddy fixes Dag with a glare.  
  
“…Most of the time.”  
  
Miss Giddy rises creakily. “I should go check on her.”  
  
“You were just trying to take care of them,” Dag says absently. “Keep them safe.” Dag’s eyes shine as she looks up at Miss Giddy.  
  
“We won’t resent you if you bring someone to help us out of this hole.”


	5. Blue Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dag's feeling vengeful. Capable not so much.
> 
> Warning for violence and blood.

She wants the muted crack of bone, even though she’s never heard it. 

She wants screams as unstoppable as the wind.

She wants blood so sick it’s black.

“We really shouldn’t be down here.”

"Nobody else here is alive.” Her voice is venom. She holds hurricanes in her fists. The naked warboy curled at her booted feet is a worm, hardly worth preying upon. “Filthy _smeg_ ,” she snarls, and snaps a kick quick as a snake’s strike at the warboy’s hard flat belly.

Capable cringes. “No unnecessary killing, Dag.”

Unreasoning rage sizzles her blood to tar and her marrow to cinders. She kicks the warboy again and again: "Angharad,” _thunk_ , “is,” _thunk_ , “ _dead_!” _WHAM_! Dag delivers the last kick with all her sinewy might. The warboy mewls and writhes, and she knows this is how worms move even though she’s never seen one or the thick rich soil in which they lived. Weak coughs sputter out of the warboy’s mouth.

Dag bends forward, a swanlike ballerina in dust-brown boots. “ _Die slow,_ ” she purrs to the warboy. There is little color left in him under the warpaint and the moody bluish light of the Blood Shed. It is the same color of the veins worming under the thin skin of her wrist.

The warboy lifts his head, sputters like a dying engine. A hook of maroon clings to the corner of his mouth. Now he is a fish, and Dag holds the line. “It’s ‘die _soft’_ ,” the warboy croaks. “And I _won’t_. Not _never_. Especially ‘cuzza some _breeder_.” His eyes are blank holes the color of a sunbleached sky. Why do they always have blue eyes? She hates men with blue eyes.

“I don’t care how you do it, just _die,”_ Dag shrieks. Frightened of the fury in her voice, the rock walls throw the sound back to them.

She wants shattered jaws, burst eyes, throat open in a bloody smile, but she cannot bring herself to touch the filthy worm, the reeking fish at her feet. So she aims for his kidneys and kicks. Bruises are already blooming on his lithe and well-made body. Well-made, at least, on the surface. But Dag knows he is not made of flesh. He is made of black oil and arsenic bones and soft pockets of death under skin that gorge themselves, burst, and fill the chambers of the heart with plague and dogma.

“Dag, _please._ He’ll die soon anyway. Organic and the redthumbs are gone. No more bloodbags. Just leave him alone. Furiosa’s probably looking for us.”

Dag whirls, head darting like a hunting hawk. “He’s the last one! He hates us! He hid from us! This place is more _wretched_ than the desert as long as _they’re_ here!” She jabs a finger at the worm-boy.

Capable’s arms loop around her neck and her body rests against the small but growing round of Dag’s belly. Inside is the true last relic of the last wretched age, and with all the breath in her, Dag prays that it will not have blue eyes.


	6. Svinya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> VERY NSFW!! Gross stuff ahead!!! 
> 
> My OC Frayja works for her keep with the People Eater.

Frayja ground the massive, lumpy rubber schlanger into Richard’s arse, twisting it as it sunk in. Her sightless, milkwhite eyes glared at a point on his overhanging gut just a hairsbreadth above the tip of his cock, leaking precum around the curved piercing. Richard moaned, the chain strung between his nipples tinkling softly. 

This time, instead of binding his hands, she’d left the cuffs hanging on the wall. “Keep your hands on that chain so I’ll know you’re behaving,” she’d spat. 

“ _Yes_ , mistress,” was his instantaneous and gleeful reply, and he’d only slipped up once…until he’d figured out what happened if the chain stopped jingling.

It stopped.

She snarled, grabbed the little metal nub poking out of his dick and twisted it viciously.

“Hhh _hhhhaaaaahaha_!” Richard wheezed.

“бесполезный свинья.” The words slithered out of her mouth. “Keep your squealing hole shut.”

“S-sorry, Mistress.” The chain resumed its jingle. 

“Don’t lie to me, свинья. I heard the laugh in your voice, and I’m tired of it.”

“I’m to be p-punished, then?" 

The note of hopefulness in his voice made her lip curl. In answer, she yanked the schlanger out of his arse so fast it didn’t make much of a noise. He did, though: a bark of surprise. She pulled the knife from the pocket on the leg of her pants. _You can take the girl out of the Thunderdome,_ she singsonged to herself, grin spreading over her face like plague.

"Most _gravely_ ,” she said, and slid the flat of the knifeblade up from Richard’s arsehole along the seam of his balls, flicking the point against the base of his cock. He huffed and moved. The chuckle that drooled out of her was feral and deep. “I don’t even need to blindfold you. You can’t see over your own gut, жира шлюха.”

She kept the tip of the knife on him to keep her place, pressed a little, traced a meandering line back down to his arsehole. He breathed in great galloping gasps. She eased the very tip of the blade in. The chain no longer tinkled. She grabbed and twisted the entire head of his cock–mostly on accident– like a bottle lid. His scream was more joy than pain.

“I only asked you to do one thing, бесполезно туша, and you can’t even do _that_ ,” she hissed. “отвратительный жалкий ползком животное. You aren’t worth my time." 

"I’m sorry, Mistress. I’ll do better.” The sincerity in his voice made her laugh again.

“I don’t believe you, but I _do_ believe you want me to jam this knife up your arse and stir your guts until they’re soup.” She held the knife up then, just for a moment, to give him an eyeful of the wicked backward-pointing fishhook on top of the blade. He caught his breath and let it out in a weak wheeze. “But first,” she said, the words drizzling from her jaws like rabid foam, “I’m going to cut off your balls and split your cock like an overcooked sausage." 

Richard wheezed something that might have been words. She grabbed his balls roughly and pulled them away from his body to get a better angle for the slice. _Squeezed_. The chain jingled. She held the hooked edge of the knife to his balls, bore down just a bit.

"Let me…let me taste…”

“ _Beg_ , свинья.”

“Oh _please,_ Mistress, let me _taste myself_. Please, I’ll be _good._ I’ll be a good pig, _please._ P-please…”

She suddenly lifted the blade and released his balls. He groaned deep in his chest, the sound pained and desperate. 

The chain stopped jingling. She twisted his piercing again and held it. His shout became a scream became a _squeal_ and she ran the tip of the blade down the underside of his cock from twisted tip to base, over his balls and then pushed it into his arsehole.

“No. You don’t _deserve_ it, нечисто боров; you’ll die slow with nothing but the taste of your own filth in your mouth because I’ll cut you up from the inside–” she pressed the knife a bit further in– “and everything that’s festering in your putrid gut will spill into your blood and you’ll poison yourself with your own sickness and I’ll smell it and I’ll laugh,” she did– _cackled,_  teeth bared– and Richard’s cock throbbed under her hand, “I’ll listen to your dying screams and I’ll cut your dick off  _right_ before you come, _right_ before you can claim the last bit of pleasure you’ve managed to squeeze out of your pitiful useless existence–”

She pressed the blade to the base of his rock-hard cock, and a breathy scream screwed into her ears. The entire continent of his body spasmed. She jerked back an instant before he came, and stayed crouched there, face neutral and blade held down, until his screams and jerks and pants subsided.

A one-eighty degree turn and six steps and the edge of his bed met her outstretched hand. She bent down and pulled the metal box out from under it and returned to Richard’s side, clicking her tongue to place him and carefully avoid where the puddle of his come would be. She pulled a thin square from the pile of gauze pads in the first aid kit and pressed it to Richard’s arsehole. Held it up. “Blood?”

“Yes, but not much,” he said a little sadly.

She sucked her teeth. “Next time.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he purred.

She upended the bottle of alcohol over the next square of gauze and held it to him. Richard hissed a breath in between his teeth. The chain jingled. She repeated the process with his cock. “Where else?”

“That’s all.”

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

She mopped up his come, packed the kit and replaced it under Richard’s bed. Knelt again by his head. Held her hands up, flipped them. “Blood?”

“No.”

She stood and held out a hand. His heavy hairy one landed in it. She braced herself and hauled backward with all her might. They both grunted and heaved until Richard was upright.

“You want first shower, or…?” Keen asked.

“Ladies first,” Richard said. The chain jingled.


	7. Family Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Immortan Joe is not a total douchecanoe for once. He cuddles with my OC and a friend's OC.

Joe heaved a rattling sigh that, for once, didn’t end in a cough, and heaved the Vault door open. 

Between a Buzzard raid gone nasty, a _disagreement_ with Richard over the price of a new girl, and a frightening sputter in the aquifer pipes, the week had worn Joe to his bones. He needed the warmth of his wives’ flesh, but working up the energy to fuck them was about as likely as the desert suddenly sprouting an oak forest. His heart lifted all the same as he pulled his mask off and tossed it carelessly onto one of the rusty folding chairs in front of the blackboard. 

“Girls? Daddy’s home.”

No answer. With a wry twist to her mouth, Miss Giddy thumbed him back into the curtained bedchamber, but they weren’t in their beds.

_Goddamned feral girls._

One of them, probably Danu, had made a nest of sheets and pillows in the far corner of their bedroom, and all four of them lay curled around each other in a cloud of white linen: Danu, forming the left parenthesis, her baby girl beside her, then Dira’s infant boy, born just two weeks ago, was snugged into the hollow of Dira’s body, curving out to complete the circle. Above his children, his wives’ hands were twined. 

A corner of Joe’s mouth lifted up in a smile. He knew he’d regret it later, but this was too pretty a picture to change. 

He let the sounds of his undressing wake them; Dira cracked one eye open, stretched and yawned like a lazy cat. Danu moaned sleepily and hugged her girl to her. Normally he’d have it from her soon, but both of them had been behaving _so well_ , especially after Dira’s boy was born healthy, and, well, it had been _so long_ since such peace had existed in the Vault.

He’d done well with his feral girls, and this pretty little tableau was part of his reward. He knelt down, passing through a bar of golden sunlight that angled down through the window above them. “Make room for Daddy, girls,” he rumbled, ignoring the twinges in his knees, hips and spine as he eased himself onto his back. He let out an unsteady grunt and settled back, looping one arm around each of them. Danu’s girl squirmed and Joe brushed a calloused thumb over the featherlight spray of black hair on her head. Dira chirred sleepily to her– _his_ – son, who mewled at being woken. Joe gently placed the boy on his chest and hummed a wordless lullaby. Dira pressed herself to Joe’s left side and sighed contentedly. He glanced at Danu, whose piercing gaze held no anger or malice. Her eyes slipped closed and Joe cupped the back of her head in his hand. 

Two hours later, Miss Giddy peeked her birdlike head in the room, her mouth open to tell Joe his Imperators were asking for him, but the sunlight struck in a diagonal across the dozing five arrested her. Dust motes swam lazily in front of their sleeping faces. 

_Never thought I’d call anything involving Joe beautiful,_ she thought to herself as she told the Imperators Joe was indisposed and would return shortly.


	8. Good Men Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colonel Joe Moore isn't Immortan yet, but he's already kind of an asshole.
> 
> WARNING: DUBCON. Not explicit.

In the moonless apocalyptic dark, their eyes are the last four cinders. Ever burning, never falling.

And they belong to Colonel Joe Moore.

He peels the gas mask off, swipes at the sweat on his mouth. They shuffle. His eyes are keen. “You first.” He grabs a fistful of inky hair; a halo of congealed darkness. 

They say they are sisters, but their bones, poking their grubby skin into little hills and shallow valleys, aren’t built the same. Does it matter?

He comes into the taller one hard, fast, rough, his bared teeth an inch from her throat. She breathes through her nose in quick snuffles because he’s got her mouth. He is all she’s known.

After he’s done, she gets water. The metallic slosh of the canteen is close and vital in the predatory blackness of the tent. More vital, more needful, is the clutch of her hand. Her nails catch his finger as he hands the canteen off.

She drinks like a goddamn dog. He growls a stop. She’d have emptied the shared canteen. They say they are sisters.

He takes a little longer with the shorter one. Her hands hook his hips into her and she accepts his hand at her throat in silence. 

She gets water and a brutal, iron-tongued kiss.

Cats could go feral in ninety days. Girls went feral as soon as you let go of them.

The wind moans around the corners of the tent like a spurned lover. It carries sand and salt and sickness like a prisoner carries his shackles. Binds everything in the desert to it. Colonel Moore rises and buckles his mask back on. 

The girls’ coalbright eyes burn a mark into the base of his neck.

They are only floating cinders, and he could squeeze them out if he wanted.

Deepdog guards the tent. They nod to each other, frosted with starlight that has traveled longer than five lifetimes of the cursed earth just to land on their shoulders, muscled by murder.

He hears the shorter one’s voice rise above the constant wind like the aural equivalent of a searchlight beam striking him: “Where are all the good men dead? In the heart or in the [head](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.imdb.com%2Ftitle%2Ftt0119229%2Fquotes%3Fitem%3Dqt0469140&t=OGUzNjIxMGU0NzMyY2Q3NjQ2MzRkYmRhMDdjYWMzZDk5ZjM1YWU5YyxoT1Bqd3JFRw%3D%3D)?”

The sand had drunk blood and eaten cities and was shitting slow death back at the few who’d clawed through that voracious hell. Through the soles of his boots the death would come; into the fissures of his skin. How long would the moaning ghosts of the bombs they dropped let him walk?

Had he ever been a good man?

Would it matter?


	9. Battle Itch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember that one Polecat with the doll face on the back of his mask? The one that stabbed Furiosa with the bonehandled knife?
> 
> Warning for mild body horror

Babyface is bored. He’s sharpened all of his knives, taken apart his crossbow, oiled it, cleaned it, _twice_. The chewed-up red meat that passes for his face itches, but every time he scratches, more blood runs and more flesh sloughs off. 

He uncurls himself from his bunk. The ancient springs scream. 

He’ll go down to the mess to find some new meat–he giggles at his own pun, a jagged broken-glass sound– to scare shitless.

To most, he is Black Mask. They don’t much see him with the hockey mask, which he keeps polished to a reflective shine. If his eyes, starey and entirely not sane, ringed by pulpy red flesh, aren’t enough to put them off, the doll’s face at the back, which he keeps scarred and filthy, usually is.

Before he can take four long, barefoot steps over the grated steel, the muster siren goes off in a long, rising _wwwwooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOH_.

Babyface grins. It is a horrible lipless knifewound on his face. He scoops up his clothes and weapons in two chapped, peeling hands and dresses as he jogs toward the motor pool, deliberately saving the mask for last. He joins the pressing flow of warboys, drivers, Flamers, other Polecats. Some turn their heads to look at Babyface. He grins at them, waggling what’s left of his tongue.

Gastown is made of steel, because steel doesn’t burn. He listens to it, roaring with the pump and grind of the oil rigs, ringing with voices and footfalls all around him, and it is his song.

His driver nods. The man on ballast blinks at him. New meat. The ballast lowers his pole, but Babyface shakes his head, and back up to vertical the pole goes. Babyface claws up it with uncanny strength and hitches himself in.

Right before he puts on his mask, he catches a glimpse of the Big Boss, being lifted into his Big Benz by a gaggle of skinny warboys. 

The engines rev and the Big Benz lumbers out into the piercing sun. Babyface’s driver is second out, and his ballast swings him a bit too close to the Benz’s flames. But Babyface is made of steel, and steel doesn’t burn. He locks a bolt into his crossbow and lets the ballast swing him in a wide, slow arc, like the world’s tallest cobra preparing to strike.

Nobody asks where they’re going. They don’t need to. The Big Boss had looked awful _flustered_ , and the only man who can _fluster_ him like that is Big Joe, and killing fields always sprout from Big Joe’s bootsteps.

Babyface licks the ruin of his lips and his face doesn’t itch anymore.


	10. Lancer Seeking Driver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slit has a wank. 
> 
> NSFW. For lizard dick.

Nux had landed his rustheaded self back in the Blood Shed again. What a way to end a raid.

Slit, left without his driver and his celebratory suck, stalked the motor pool halls alone.

Every step he took pressed his hardening cock against his trousers, and soon it was raging hard– _painful_ – and he couldn’t catch his breath.

He ducked into a divot in the rock wall, just large enough to hide him in a pool of jagged shadow. There were no cars in the bays to his left and right; nobody would come down here. If they did, well, they’d most likely get a mouthful of Slit’s cock and a name that didn’t belong to them.

He almost forgot to take his gloves off before he grabbed hold of his cock, poking proudly out of the slit in his black trousers. _That_ would have been a nice rough ride. He’d have to try it on Nux. See how he liked it.

He jerked his cock hard and fast, not bothering with spitting in his hand. His body curled around his hand pumping his upcurved cock, an open parenthesis missing its partner. 

It was Nux there in front of him, on his knees, soulful blue eyes gazing up at him needfully.

“Hurry,” he heard Nux whisper. “I need to feel you cum.” 

And oh, _V8,_ he could feel Nux’s breath ghosting over his wet, straining cock.

The stone was cold and jagged at his back, but it muffled his choked groans well. The hand not pumping his cock slid down over the hard ridges of muscle from chest to crotch and back up. He twisted one nipple between his fingers, but it was really Nux’s fingers like it was Nux’s mouth suctioned around his dick.

“You taste so good, Slit. Let me have it.”

Slit was bloody roadkill at holding back, so it was only a minute or two until his breath hitched, then _moaned_ out of him. His hips rocked and thrust involuntarily. What didn’t spurt out of him to splash on the stone drizzled down and dripped off his knuckles. 

His head rocked back and rested on the rough stone; his chest rose and fell. Nux kept sucking, kept milking, which sent achingly delicious pulses through him, making him jerk and pant. When he finally had nothing left, he tucked his contented– _for the moment_ – dick back into his trousers and brought his hand to his mouth to lick the cum off.

Paused. Blinked. Lowered his hand.

Turned in the direction of the Blood Shed, lizard smile stretched across his jaws. 

Nux wouldn’t have the strength to suck, but he’d at least have the strength to lick up the _mess_ he’d made.


	11. Keeps for Keeps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rarepair. Kalashnikov/People Eater. Slight AU.
> 
> NSFW!!

The night’s first customer was not at all whom Richard had expected.

Kalashnikov slipped in on sniper’s feet, divested—mostly—of his steel plumage, and went to his knees next to where Richard sat half-out of his bedroll, the only protection he was allowed against the night’s chill. His hand brushed the side of Richard’s head clumsily—the night was utterly moonless and abyss-black—then caught a fistful of the greasy mop that had become his hair, and yanked him forward into a pair of lips that were much, _much_ softer than they’d looked. The bullet-fence of his teeth was wiggly and loose but Richard ran his tongue along it anyway. Kalashnikov inhaled a shivering breath and scooted closer.  His knee brushed Richard’s bare thigh, and the touch, even though Kalashnikov was clothed, was electric.

When they finally parted, Richard could see nothing, but all he needed were Kalashnikov’s needful pants and the click of his throat as he swallowed.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Richard said quietly, warily.

There was a rustle of cloth and a gentle jingle of metal. “Truth be told, I wasn’t expectin’ me either.” His voice was unsteady, _young_. Kalashnikov’s age– or lack thereof–smacked Richard in the face again. The man– _young man_ –was ten years younger at least than Richard and the Colonel. Young enough and impressionable enough to…

“I…I needed to see you.” 

Good, oh, _good_. The Colonel hadn’t sent him this time. Richard knew better than to get his hopes up, though. When they reached the aquifer, Kalashnikov would become the Colonel’s creature again. But maybe just for tonight–

“Let’s blow this shitshow. For good.”

The gears in Richard’s mind ground to a smoking halt. “What?”

“Y'heard me. We’ll take the fastest bike. Cut the fuel lines to all the other ones so they can’t follow us. Kill the sentry real quiet.” His voice was steady, sure, low.

With both hands, Richard reached for Kalashnikov in the dark, found his narrow chest. His shirt was open. The skin underneath was cool and clammy. The muscles beneath it were wiry and hard. And trembling. Richard spread his big hands over Kalashnikov’s chest, then up his neck, over the bobbing Adam’s apple, then to his sunken cheeks and the stubble sprouting there. “What you’re talking about is suicide. Even if we could get away…”

Kalashnikov set his jaw and Richard felt the muscles bunch under his hands. “We’ll have the fastest bike. We’ll get to the aquifer. We’ll take it.”

Richard coughed a chuckle. “We’re two men. Really, just one.”

“Don’t fuckin’ talk like that, you goddamn sook.”

“You just made my point for me. I’m not a warrior. I’m a whore.”

Kalashnikov exhaled shakily, his breath metallic with adrenaline and bullets. “Not if you stop fartin’ around and come _with_ me.”

Richard wasn’t sure if he’d heard the note of pleading in Kalashnikov’s voice or if it was just wishful thinking. _One way to find out._ He drew Kalashnikov’s face closer, kissed him, kept pulling, tipped backward until Richard lay on his back and Kalashnikov straddled him on hands and knees. Richard’s hands were large but they were dexterous, and they had Kalashnikov out of his shirt and trousers and gunbelt before he could do much more than wiggle, which made them both catch their breath.

“We don’t have time for this,” Kalashnikov said, his voice suddenly softer than the wind buffeting the tiny tent.

“Yes we do.” Richard reached down and cupped Kalashnikov’s hard and straining cock; aimed it where it belonged. Whether it was instinct or reflex or pure eagerness, the instant it touched him Kalashnikov jerked forward with a surprised grunt. Richard gasped, but this had not been the first time someone had gone in cold and most likely wouldn’t be the last. Kalashnikov’s mouth closed around Richard’s nipple and the happy sigh he gave choked off into a groan. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Kalashnikov hissed. 

Richard chuckled. “Why? You and the Colonel are much louder. Nobody cares.”

“We’re tryin’ to get away, you fuckwit, remember?”

“And we’re doing a rubbish job at it.” Richard made sure the smile was in his voice. He hooked his legs around Kalashnikov’s bony arse and pulled him in to the hilt. They both sighed. Kalashnikov built a steadily pulsing rhythm with his narrow but well-muscled hips and Richard counted the thrusts as they sped up, then slowed, and then Kalashnikov slammed into him and stifled a scream. Warm come dripped down the crack of his arse and made him purr. Kalashnikov collapsed on Richard’s broad belly and panted. He ran his hands through Kalashnikov’s thick brown hair, already peppered with grey. 

“Now we can go,” Richard murmured.

“What about you?”

“There’ll be time. If we take the fastest bike.”

“Nah, mate. That’s not fuckin’ fair.” Kalashnikov slid out of him and slid down his belly. Richard’s eyes slid closed as Kalashnikov’s mouth slid over the head of his cock. 

“Our best opportunity…is at the changing of…the guard. Five minutes,” Richard gasped.

There was a smile in Kalashnikov’s voice now. "I’ll have you finished way before then,” he said from between Richard’s legs, and didn’t he just look _perfect_ there. “You’re coming with me, but you’re also coming _for_ me.” 

He was true to his word.

The blue-eyed specter of the Colonel would trail them, maybe for the rest of their lives. But just now, with his arms snugged around Kalashnikov’s waist and his face buried in his hair and the Colonel’s furious bellows drowned by the drone of the bike, everything was right.


	12. Grumpy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring everyone's favorite foxy grandpa (the Ace). SFW.

The scrawny little scrapheap wasn’t like the other pups at _all_ , but she was still a _pup._

Ace grabbed her by the scruff– still tender from the brand; he got the outraged yelp he’d expected– and hauled her back from the rest of the passel of around fifteen pups between two thousand and three thousand days old, released for the day back into their creche by a very tired, very _grumpy_ Ace.

“Nuh uh, _pup_. You’ve earned yourself _scrubbin’_   duty today.”

The girl twisted and grunted and snapped her teeth in his grip like a juvenile croc just learning how to deathroll. He turned them both out of the small, cozy alcove that made the pups’ creche and marched her down the hall toward the motor pool.

She knew _exactly_ what she’d done, which is what chafed him so. Those glittering green eyes held more knowing _fury_ than anyone he’d seen since… well, since… the Big Boss. She craned her face up to his and bared her teeth, hands clawed into his at the back of her neck.

His grip was steadfast but his eyes, thankfully behind the blank black of his goggles, filled briefly with fear. 

He shook it out of him, thinned his crooked lips into a pale knife edge, and tossed her toward Cranky Frank.

“Spitshine until I can pop me zits in the glow of the hood, _pup._ Y’have an hour. I’ll be _watchin’.”_

He settled himself against the jagged wall of the motor pool; ignored the stone jabbing him between his shoulderblades and the pup’s glared daggers jabbing him between his eyes. She snatched an oilstained cloth out of the pocket of a passing warboy and bore down on Frank’s hood furiously. Ace looked at her, just a skinny smudge of black and white, and thought.

What if this little warpup didn’t grow into a wargirl but a warrior?

And for whom would she fight?


	13. Purr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maxiosa. SFW.

The lines of Furiosa usually spoke _tigress._ Coiled muscle, latent growl, waiting fangs.

But just occasionally, when he caught her with eyelids nearly shut and limbs tucked and folded, when he could almost hear her _purring_ , she was just _cat._ Still had claws. Still Furiosa. Just… _cat._

He reached across the cab of the rig and swept a dark curl away from her forehead.

Her eyes, the only thing on her that moved, slid open almost lazily, but the piercing green light in them, avid and _ready_ in the blueblack breezy night coming in through the windows, changed her entire being.

From _cat_ to _tigress_.

“’S’okay,” he murmured. “Get some rest.”

“I had the dream again,” she said. Her voice was soft, like the slip of a cat’s paws across a windowsill. 

He held an arm out. She curled into his side; pressed her head into his cupped hand.

_Cat._

“Hm. Did you get him?”

“Yes.”

Max drove on, listening to her purr.


End file.
